


Goodbye Old Friend

by Nefaie



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Vol'jin dies, Warchief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefaie/pseuds/Nefaie





	Goodbye Old Friend

Prithivi did not bother reaching the ground before shifting back into a troll. A crowd of citizens had gathered in front of Grommash Hold, but Prithivi paid no mind. She shoved herself through the crowd despite the protests of the tauren and orcs that had gathered, but the crowd shoved back. It was obvious, that in the chaos, none recognized Prithivi.

 

            She grunted in annoyance and conjured a swirling vortex in her path, sending anyone in her way flying back a few yards. The mob cried out in anger but were swiftly silenced by the soothing warmth of the pillar of sunlight that came crashing down. With her path clear, Prithivi sprinted the rest of the way to Grommash Hold finally slowing her pace as she rounded the corner of the throne room.

 

            “I knew ya’d be here, Prithavi.” A decaying troll rested in the leather throne at the back of the room. Shamans surrounded him, bathing him in rippling waters. His blue skin stained with the taint of fel, his eyes glazed over as his sight began to fade. “Where be Nefaie I was sure she’d be followin’ ya?” He whispered something to one of the shamans in the room. They nodded and exited the hold, bringing the other shamans with them.

 

            “She be makin’ her own decisions, Vol’jin. Best not be worryin’ about her.” She lied. Prithivi’s stomach was heavy with anxiety. In an act of uncontrolled rage, her mate had flung herself off the cliff of the broken shores and into the fray below as the Banshee Queen called for a retreat at the fall of the Warchief. Word had already reached her than High King Varian Wrynn had fallen, likely due to the retreat of the Horde army. Prithivi could not shake the thoughts that her mate had met the same fate.

 

            “What am I to be doin’ wit ya? Poison dis, poison dat. For a Shadow Hunter such as you, dis be disgraceful,” she teased Vol’jin. “Dis one might be takin’ me longer to fix, but I’ll be havin’ ya as good as new.”

 

            “Prithavi…” Prithivi walked right up to the decaying troll, placed one hand next to the oozing fel-wound and the other gripped tightly to the broken legion glaive in his torso. With a single labored heave, she ripped the glaive from his torso and bound it tightly in magical roots to contain its corruption. Vol’jin grunted at the pain. A river of fel corrupted blood gushed out of the wound making the druid grimace.

 

            “Ya’d make a find Warchief, Prithavi,” Vol’jin mused.

 

            “I can’t be Warchief while we already be havin’ one.” Prithivi created a pad of moss that she pressed tightly to the weakened Warchief. The moss grew and as it grew it wrapped around Vol’jin like linen bandages. Still, the fel corrupted blood of the shadow hunter oozed out burning away the mossy bandages. Prithivi frowned.

 

            Vol’jin hunched over in his chair, bracing himself on the armrest. Worried that the Warchief might lose consciousness before she could complete her work, Prithivi cast a quick rejuvenation spell upon him and he sighed in relief. Satisfied by the effects, Prithivi returned her attention to the oozing fel wound.

 

            Nature magic gleefully caressed Prithivi as she called for it. Her moonlit eyes glowed more intensely as life essence of Azeroth herself celebrated her will. She concentrated the power into her hand until it glowed so brightly with life, she could no longer see her hands within the glow. She used her free hand to peel the moss from the wound then tenderly placed her life infused hand directly on the Warchief’s wound.

 

            The moment her hand met the wound, Prithivi felt violently ill. The fel magic had perverted her nature magic, shaking her to her core. She swallowed the bile at the back of her throat and pushed more of her mana into the spell. This only served to pervert her nature magic further. The life that had clung lovingly too her hand dropped like sludge from her fingertips. Decay creeped into the remaining magic and attempted to assault Prithivi. Disgusted, she shook the magic off and reached once again for her beloved nature. It responded to her will, but not with gleeful love, but with hard determination.

 

            Prithivi laid her hand on the wound and applied more pressure. The fel magic seeped deeply into her nature magic, this time brushing Prithivi’s very soul. She could no longer hold back the bile from her stomach; she dropped to the side of the throne and vomited violently. Once her heaves became dry she stood once again, calling upon the deepest life magic of Azeroth, determination burning furiously in her eyes.

 

            “Dat be enough, Prithavi,” Vol’jin choked. She waived her hand dismissively and reached to lay her hand to the wound once again. Vol’jin weakly grabbed her wrist and captured her eyes with his own. Her eyes travelled to his broken tusk and she let out a defeated sigh.

 

            “Dis can’t be da end, old friend.”

 

            “Death be not da end. Death be a new beginin’.” Vol’jin dissolved into a fit of coughs. “I have somethin’ ta ask of ya dat you may not undastand now, but ya must.”

 

            “I be honoring any last wishes for ya,” Prithivi croaked sadly.

 

            “Burn dis body,” he commanded. Prithivi stared at Vol’jin stunned. They both knew that to burn a troll’s body meant that he may never return to it. “Dis body be tainted too deeply with da foulest fel magic I eva seen. Da Legion necromancers wont hesitate to claim dis body as a conduit of powa.” Behind the pair, the racial leaders of the Horde lined up around the circular room. The reality of the situation weighed on Prithivi as she nodded her head in affirmation. Words would not serve justice to honor the wishes of this fallen hero.

           

            Her eyes fell upon the final racial leader of the Horde as she graced them with her presence. Prithivi backed away from the throne and joined the leaders in line, never taking her eyes off the Banshee Queen.

 

            Vol’jin coughed violently and gasped for air. “Windrunner,” he addressed the banshee. “Come forward.”

 

            “Warchief,” she acknowledged him.

 

            Vol’jin let out another hacking cough and wheezed. “Da Loa spirits say death will claim me soon.” He swirled his hand through the smoke of the brazen sitting beside the throne, breathing in some of the tendrils of smoke.

 

            “In the end, death claims us all,” she responded solemnly, tearing her eyes away from the decaying Warchief. “But the Horde will live on.”

 

            “I have _neva_ trusted you,” he spat at Sylvanas. “Nor would I have eva imagined in our darkest time you would be the one ta save us.” Sylvanas’s eyes opened wider in momentary shock. “The spirits have granted me clarity… a vision. They whisper a name. Many,” he paused to cough. “Many will not undastand, but you must step out of da shadows and lead. You… must be War…chief.”

 

            The proud troll exhaled his final breath and slumped over on the throne as the last essence of his life trickled away. Not a single one of them moved. As Vol’jin predicted, none had understood why he would have ever named Sylvanas as their next Warchief. None besides Prithivi.

 

            Prithivi approached the corpse of Vol’jin and tenderly stroked the intact tusk. Silent tears streamed down Prithivi’s cheeks. “If it not be for ya, I would have neva found my true callin’. Because of ya, I learned not ta fear dis new powa but to embrace it. Ya watched me grow an learn. When da fellow leaders of da horde opposed the thought of me becomin’ a Druid, ya laughed at them. ‘My right hand, becomin’ a Druid, can ya imagine dat? Da first troll Druid!’ ya said ta dem all. ‘She’ll be risin’ above ya all.’ Ya boasted of me. And now ya goin’ an dyin’ on me?” Prithivi laughed a hallow laugh. “Be restin’ easy now, old friend, I be takin’ it from here.”

 

            The shamans returned to the room to move the corpse of Vol’jin. Prithivi stroked the intact tusk one final time before moving aside for the shamans. They paid their respects to Prithivi and she gave them a weak, tear stained, smile.

 

Sylvanas dropped a hand on her shoulder as the rest of the leaders of the Horde followed behind and in front of the gurney to clear a path. Prithivi rolled her shoulder, removing Sylvanas’s hand. “Do him justice, Windrunner,” she sneered at the undead elf before following behind the envoy.

 

The funeral was erected quickly with Prithivi’s help. Her friend’s body wrapped head to toe in linen wrappings as customary to trolls. Prithivi’s heart squeezed at the thought of her long-time friend beneath the wrappings and turned to face the mourning members of the horde who had gathered to honor such a great warrior. Many recognizable faces littered the crowd, but she could look at none. Her eyes stay glued to the back of Sylvanas as she stepped forward to address the crowd.

 

“Vol’jin is dead,” she called out over the crowd. “Who among you will help me avenge him,” she bellowed her rally cry.

 

Her words were met with an intensity that only the horde could muster. The orcs, the tauren, the trolls, the forsaken and the Sin’dorei unified their voices in a rallying cry of “For the Horde!” Even Gallywix and his crew had joined the chant. Sylvanas turned to Prithivi and handed her the torch and whispered loud enough for only her. “I believe this honor belongs to you."

 

She nodded and took the torch from the new Warchief, lighting the pyre on fire. The fire spread quickly and reached for the sky. Pain welled within Prithivi’s chest. Unable to witness Vol’jin’s final fate, she shifted into her owl form and beat her powerful wings, launching her high into the air.

 

She scanned the crowd and turned her head to the pyre one final time. “Goodbye, old friend.”


End file.
